The Curtain

You’re backstage. 

You can hear the murmur of the crowd on the other side. The crew bustles around you. Excitement fills the air. But the curtain is down. There’s no risk yet. There’s anticipation, but that’s all so far. 

You know your lines. You’ve rehearsed. You’re confident in what you can do. You’ve done the work, and you have the skills. You know the audience has paid a fair price. 

But your heart doesn’t care about any of that.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands tingle. Your heart is suddenly a percussionist with something to prove.

When the curtain rises, it could go either way. The standing ovation and the audience satisfied. Or they won’t care, didn’t get it, and think they paid too much. 

And that’s what makes it real.

Because if it were certain, it wouldn’t be worth doing. If it were easy, it wouldn’t matter. That mix of hope and fear — of maybe and maybe not — is the cost of doing something that matters.

You don’t get to skip this moment. You shouldn’t skip this moment.

So you breathe.

You take that step forward and put a smile on your face. 

The curtain rises.